One of Those 'Forever' Things
by SacredAir
Summary: It's kind of nice, in a twisted way, because no words are needed – everything is understood without the need for explanations. Tag for 'Jetlag' Tony's POV. Re-uploaded with the correct version!


**Title: **One of Those 'Forever' Things.  
**Rating: **T  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own NCIS!

I've been meaning to publish this fic for a while. It's a tag to 'Jetlag', which I thought was a rather brilliant episode, perfect for developing theories on what might have happened during that night in Paris ;)

So yes, this is one of those 'specuation' fics. I'm inclined to think that perhaps they forged a new kind of bond during the night they spent there, that they both reached a new level of understanding. It is not like my other tag to 'Jetlag' (called Fleeting Photograph, if you're interested in reading that, you can find it on my profile :)) because it is rather full of angst (although as it's written in Tony's POV, you can expect little bursts of humour here and there!)

Here it is. Enjoy!

(Edit: I had to re-upload the document this morning - as last night I was half asleep and put up the draft version! Sorry!)

* * *

'I am so sorry, Mademoiselle David, but we appear to have encountered an error. The computer only registers one room as being booked, not two.'

Well. This would be interesting.

Even now, when the chance of the hotel receptionist being beaten to death by your partner is extremely high, you allow a quick smirk to play at your lips. There's just something so _captivating_ about her when she's annoyed… (Whatever it is, it makes your stomach feel funny. Funny _good, _not funny _bad._)

'Well, isn't it possible to book another room now?' Ziva's impatience was growing, her foot tapping repeatedly onto the marble beneath it.

'Unfortunately, we do not have any other rooms available.'

The look on Ziva's face is unreadable as she collects the keys, and you have to keep a steady jog to keep up with her as she makes her way to the lift. As the doors shut, leaving the two of you alone in the metallic box along with your respective luggage, she suddenly turns towards you at break-neck speed, the ends of her hair tickling your face in the process.

'Any donkey business and I will throw you off of the balcony.' She whispers, feather-light breath fanning your throat, brown eyes glinting daringly.

You like it when she threatens you. It's like its old times again.

Like how it was before the summer.

…Kind'a.

'It's 'monkey' business,' you breathe back, inclining your head forward just a tad too far, so that your noses brush against each other for a fraction of a second.

Hasn't it just gotten hotter in here? It sure does feel like it's gotten hotter all of a sudden. Damn cheap hotel air-conditioning.

And then suddenly the doors open with a 'ping!' and the door to your room is being opened for you by a kid who couldn't be older than eighteen in a standard hotel uniform coat and pants. You both mumble your thank-you's ('cause sure, your French is crap, but 'merci' is just basic knowledge) and shuffle into the room.

'I'll take the-' You stop. And look around. There's no way-

'Floor?' she finishes, flashing you a smug grin, and sits down heavily on one side of the bed. 'Why thank you, Tony. You are quite the gentleman.'

There's no couch. Damn cheap hotel.

* * *

When you come out the bathroom, dressed in your cleanest t-shirt and boxers, the doors to the balcony are wide open, gossamer-like curtains swaying gently in the breeze. She's out there; clad in a large t-shirt and shorts – you guess it's her usual bed-time attire. As cheesy as it sounds, it's a bit like something out of a dream – a night where the moon is big and the stars are shining and the curtains billowing around you and _Ziva -_ swamped by such a big shirt. (Though, you're also racking your mind frantically to figure out an explanation as to why Ziva owns a man's shirt. Preferably an explanation that has nothing to do with boyfriends. )

'Ahh. Pa-ree, Pa-ree. C'est la vie, le Pa-ree.'

'What you just said made no sense at all.' There she goes again, shrugging smugly like a cat that's gotten the cream – making you feel silly and childish all at once with that tiny grin of hers that drives you _crazy._ But there's something else, her shoulders are too tight – her gaze too bright. So you remind her that you're totally fine sleeping on the floor. (Even though you're not as young as you used to be and your back'll be playin' up for weeks afterwards).

It doesn't surprise you when she nods and saunters back inside without arguing, grabbing her book and half-throwing herself on the bed.

She knows what she's been through more than anyone, after all.

Ducky had given you strict orders to take care of her – not that there was a need for you to be reminded. Her injuries were almost healed, but sitting strapped to a chair for seven weeks would've caused problems for her back too.

(You push that thought away, because thinking of Ziva – _like that_ – depresses you.)

* * *

A couple of hours later she's asleep and you're lying on the sorry excuse of a carpet (are carpets even _meant_ to be this lumpy?) trying and failing to ignore the twinge in your lower neck. She's left her bedside light on, and from where you're positioned you can see that thick book dangling precariously in her hand, which is slung over the side of the bed.

It couldn't hurt to take it from her and preventing it from falling to the floor, could it? (There's that, but really you're just curious 'bout what she looks like when she's sleeping.)

Nearing the bed, you realise you're holding your breath - as if that's going to stop her from waking up. She's lying curled up on her side, long dark tendrils of hair fanning over the pillow in a fashion that makes you just want to stroke your fingers through it. The edges of her shorts have ridden up slightly, showing jagged, healing scars and mottled skin.

It _hurts. _It hurts to look at her – but now that you've noticed those injuries your eyes scan the rest of her skin involuntarily. The lighter scars around her ankles, and around her wrists, up her arms, on her fingers-

You wish you hadn't bothered to get up now.

Now, you can't bear the thought of having to be more than one metre away from her, and have to close your eyes, and not see her beautiful face. (You know it's stupid, but it feels as though if you stop staring at her, she'll stop existing altogether.)

And then suddenly you don't know what's happening – because her whole body tenses like some kind of human spring – her fists curl into the sheets around her so tightly you hear the crack of bone against bone. Her head snaps this way and that in a feverish fashion, facial features betraying a sense of fear that makes the bile rise in your throat because you realise that she's having a nightmare about _Somalia _and that's she's probably been having them for months and months, on her own.

The first scream, piercing and rasping, makes you take a step back, and all you can think is _fucking hell _as her body shakes and shivers as she continues to sob wildly and thrash about in the messy bed. _This is Ziva_. And she's crying and scared and fucking terrified, and you're fucking terrified too and for one moment you want to cry along with her – but then remember that you just haven't _been _through all the shit that she has (so don't you _fucking dare_ make this about yourself).

Someone needs to wake her up. You need to wake her up, god-damnit. Because she's just screamed so loudly that your ears are ringing and she's bitten her lip – dark blood trickling down her chin. And she's already bled enough over the summer, so _enough is enough._

You grab one flailing wrist – and it's as if the contact has sent a current through her body, because she seizes up completely. Tormented, unseeing eyes flicker towards your own, and then suddenly she whips one hand around so fast that you hear the _thwack _before registering the pain on the side of your jaw. She punches you again, and again (and you're tempted to let her continue to do so, because it might actually benefit her), finally digging her nails right into your shoulders. By this time, she's actually kneeling on the bed rather than lying down – still not aware of who you are-

It's then that her eyes change. You wouldn't know how to describe it, all you can tell is that Ziva is no longer in 'Somalia'. She is in Paris. With you. _Safe. _(It's at this moment that you swear to God you'll kill him if he ever puts her through something like this again.)

What are you supposed to do now? Do you say something to her?

'Hey.'

Well hell. That may have been the most fucking stupid thing to say ever.

Her cheeks are red and slick with tears, but she musters up a watery, shaky smile. 'Hey.'

And you don't know who moves first, but suddenly she's in your arms, and she's crying, and you're holding onto her almost possessively - as though there's something in the room threatening to take her from you.

'I'm so sorry, Zi. So, _so sorry._'

She sniffles and presses her nose into your neck, nodding slowly. You take this as a good sign, and run your hand through her hair, combing it in a steady rhythm, until you feel her body relax.

A muffled whisper is breathed against your chest.

'What is it, Zi?'

'…thank you for always having my back.'

She squirms slightly, so you loosen your arms and allow her to turn around. Her lip is still bleeding, so you lean over and grab the bottle of water that she has by the nightstand, dampen a fistful of bed sheet, and gently dab at her face, wiping away the blood without causing her pain. Without a word, she shifts her legs and sits cross-legged in front of you – so close, in fact, that you instinctively bury your nose in her hair, kissing her forehead.

You both stay like that for a while, breathing each other in. It's kind of nice, in a twisted way, because no words are needed – everything is understood without the need for explanations. So much so, that you know what she wants to ask you, but probably won't do so out of pure embarrassment. Therefore, you take the lead.

'Let's go to sleep now, shall we?'

Both of you lie down amidst the sheets, facing each other. She leans into you, and you hold her hand, fingers smoothing over her knuckles. With her free hand, she takes your other arm, and puts it over her waist. You smile at each other, and then she quickly kisses you on the lips.

(You know you'll return the kiss someday. When the time is right.)

For the moment, you just grin, and rest your forehead against hers.

'Buona notte, Zi.'

'Laila tov, Tony.'

* * *

'Tell McGee I love Pa-ree!'

'Why don't you tell him yourself, when you get back? We must pick up our witness at the embassy. Come on.'

Hell. In the early morning light, surrounded by young waiters and snazzy cafes, you can't help but think Ziva looks beautiful. Yeah, sure –she always looks _beautiful_, but only since last night have you seen her looking so…rejuvenated. Glowing.

It's been a long time since Ziva has glowed.

(Maybe it has something to do with you, huh?)

'Whoa, whoa. Hold your horses.' She rolls her eyes, and sits back down again, the fifty euro bill still in her hand. 'Y'know one day just isn't enough in this town, is it?'

You grin at her when she glares at you, and continue to talk. 'I get why artists love it. Somethin' 'bout the light…' her curls are softer and shinier than ever this morning and you inch the camera case open. 'Picasso, Rodan…can-can girls in Moulin Rouge.'

She frowns. 'This is not a vacation, Tony.'

'Hmm.' Studying her, you can't help but think she's wrong. Last night- maybe she didn't realise it, but she was more at peace.

And she's so damn _beautiful_.

'But it _is_ a beautiful day.'

'Why are you in such a pleasant mood?'

It's then you realise – with a pang of regret – that you can't let her forget last night, as much as she might want to erase the memory from her mind (though you think that perhaps, deep down, she might know that it's best for her to remember it too). You can't let her forget that _it's okay._ And that she's not alone. And that you'll _damn well_ stay with her every night and hold her hand if it means that Somalia is no more.

'What's wrong with you?' Her voice snaps you out of your reverie, because for one moment you see that awful vulnerability and fear of rejection in her eyes. Fear that you might not understand. Fear that she let her guard down for nothing.

'I slept well last night.' Your voice stays even. 'Why? Didn't you?'

Her eyes darken.

'Sure did look comfortable enough.'

And suddenly she understands - her eyes smile in a silent _'thank you' _and you smile back – a big broad wolfish grin – because it's _Ziva_. And it _means something_.

In fact, you can't help but feel a sense of _foreverness. _It's a strange feeling – one that's in between elation and nostalgia – but your heart feels full and you think that maybe the time for you to return her kiss has inched just a fraction closer.

One day you'll be able to kiss Ziva. You'll be able to kiss her everyday.

It'll be one of those 'forever' things.

You're damn sure of it.

* * *

**How was it? Please review and let me know what you thought of it, I would really love to hear your opinions :)**


End file.
